What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger…or maims you horrifically for life

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I like that saying: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”(WDKYMYS). It sounds good, it’s inspirational. It makes you think “Heck, things were tough/awful/soul destroying – but I’m still here!!”

People have appropriated that saying into songs (looking at you Kelly Clarkson), put it on T-shirts, tattooed it on their bodies, put it over pictures of sunsets and posted it on each others walls when their friends have been dumped by jerk’s named Derrick (fuck you Derrick you meanie!)

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I like the expression, but I don’t know if I always agree with it.

Because sometimes things kill you a little bit inside and they make you feel weaker, they throw off your game.

Was Leo’s character stronger at the end of the Revenant after he got fucked up by a bear, watched his son get murdered, was left for dead and then had to crawl through the snow and shit of 1800’s Canada to Murder my future ex-husband/baby-daddy Tom Hardy’s character? (Oh yeah, spoiler alert… but seriously if you haven’t seen that movie yet get your shit together – it was nominated for and lost best picture like 5 months ago).

I mean…I guess he was stronger – like how calluses get stronger on the tops of your feet. But he was also weaker because he had lost his humanity, and he was a murderer murderer and he was gross (like a callus – see how I tied all that together? Yay Creative Writing Masters degree)

I wonder if people use WDKYMYS as a way to excuse awful situations they don’t know how to extricate themselves from?

I’d consider myself a strong person who has faced some challenges. Would I exchange them for an easy life where some of the shitty things didn’t happen to me? Yes of course! I’m not insane. Faced with two choices: an easy road and a hard, bush-basher of a path, I think most of us would choose the easy option.

But life doesn’t work like that, and there are plenty of things that will try to throw you off the plans you’ve made, a death in the family, a financial set-back, a painful divorce, an unexpected illness.

So I propose a re-word. “What doesn’t kill you makes you different” – because not all things make you stronger, and thats okay too.

You are not a failure if you come out of a near-death-esque experience and think: “well that fucking sucked” and you’re not stronger.

End of Thought.

 

5 Things that are in my bed that are not me

Gosh being in your twenties is exciting isn’t it? Every day is an adventure and blah blah blah.

Sometimes (read, all the times) there are things in my bed which aren’t me.

Here’s a list.

1. Laundry I couldn’t be bothered to put away

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Possibly THE worst household chore of all time, folding clean laundry and putting it away only to re-crumple it and rewash it and then put it away again…. Ain’t nobody got time for dat. I’ll just sleep spooning this lump of garments and pretend it’s a person who loves me. Weeping softly into my freshly laundered towls whispering “whyyyywhyyyyy” as my uterus dries up.

 

 

 

 

2. Friends from out of Town

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I’ve slept on enough couches/in friends beds over the years to feel like I always at least have to offer my bed/couch to friends who are coming into town (Karma yo). As a result, there are often quite a few galpals slumming it on my bed during the year, which I’m totally fine with so long as there’s still room for me (spoiler – there usually isn’t).

That’s cool I don’t need sleep. Sleep is for the WEAK *tears phone book in half with bear bare hands*

 

 

 

 

3. My Laptop & Phone

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I pretty much stare at a computer screen 19 hours of the day between my laptop screen and my smart phone (must…know… all…the things) so they usually have pride of place in the spot a significant other might reside at sleepy time.

The internet is my boyfriend now.

Sorry available men dying to take me out.

 

 

 

4. Food and/or Dishes

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Much like how I can’t be bothered to put away my laundry, sometimes after eating in my bed (because I’m watching Take Me Out UK on my laptop while in my pajamas because I’ve lost control of my life… duh) the kitchen 4 meters away is just too much to handle. So I’ll just carefully scrape the plate/bowl clean and rest it gently on the other side of the bed. Then I’ll have a little sleepy time because I’m freaking cool and living life to the max OKAY?!

 

 

 

 

5. An unpacked suitcase

Packed suitcase on Bed

Because I’ll go crazy if I stay in the same place for more than 3 consecutive months, I’m always packing/unpacking suitcases on my bed. My philosophy with my bed is, I need to sleep there, and I’m super lazy… so if I put enough obstacles on my nest of rest, then there’s no way I can ignore it forever and I will eventually GET SHIT DONE. Even if it’s just enough shit so that I’ve made a comfy little Paris shaped spot to curl up in. I hate putting away my clothes and I also hate packing unless its very very very much last minute and heartstoppinglypanicky. That’s why you’ll find a suitcase on there that I haven’t bothered to unpack – or because I’m reminding myself to pack. Also because I’m cooler and more international than you.

So yah.

 

 

What can you take away from this blogpost? First off – you aren’t alone, crazy, alone, lame, twenty-something year old, and also, I really really really hate putting my clothes away. So I would probably consider paying someone else to do it and stuff. Not much though… cos I’m like, poor and stuff. But maybe you could do it as an internship? Probs look great on your resume.

 

Well at least life is interesting

Sometimes I forget that not everyone travels around and lives in different places as easily as I do. I don’t feel particularly different from the people I meet, and I try to live in the moment as much as possible. I have been living in Toronto for almost 2 years (June 12 is my 2 year Anniversary with Canada) and I guess at this point I’m surprised when people think its neat that I am from Australia.

Oh yeaaaah, I’m from Australia. Right.

People is People, as they say (in the muppets 1984) and to be honest, I forget you are all Canadian.

Buuuuut…eesh…awkward…I’m not really from Australia, because I’ve now lived more years overseas than I ever did in the land of my Parents and Grandparents (cheers for the sweet passport). There are days when I miss Sydney like crazy, but I realize it’s the people and the time that it represented that I miss the most (Uni days with the best girlfriends and guyfriends in the world). Okay I miss the Harbour Bridge and King street Newtown, the Beaches and Paddington, but the great thing about my little Navy Passport with the Kangaroo and Emu on it, is that I can go back any time.

And I honestly feel like I COULD just slot back in there. Familiar streets, familiar faces.

Anyone that knows me well knows that I secretly FREAK out when it comes to change, but they also know that I am constantly making myself do weird things and change-it-up because I am like two people sharing the same personality. One, a quiet homebody type who doesn’t really want to rock the boat and wants to live a quiet, friendly, calm, stable life, and the other a crazy, Adventurous, eccentric type who says “f^%$ you, I do what WANT!” And moves to the otherside of the world with no warning.

Like on April 3rd 2013.

On April 3rd 2013 I’m going home to Hong Kong for 7 weeks to work as an Assistant Stage Manager on a rather huge production, home to the land of my High School friends, my mother, and our Irritating but adorable Cat Guinness.

Guinness the Cat

Guinness the Cat

The homebody me at first dismissed the idea of going:

Homebody Me: What about the opportunities here you may miss out on? What about your room, you’ll have to find a sublet, what about…what about…what about…

But luckily for me, my eccentric side listened to the many naggings on my mother, and simply decided, “screw this, I’m going”…and booked a ticket, confident that the rest would just fall into place. (Which it always does)

And with each day that passes since I simply made up my mind to go, I’m getting more and more excited. Because the Adventurous me gets nervous when things are a bit too quiet, and what seems more fun? Temping and doing Volunteer TV stuff, or going to Asia and working on a West End like production? If the universe unfolds as it should, and with the Job market such a dogs breakfast over here…maybe I was meant to take this opportunity all along?

With my new 2 year Canadian work visa up for renewal, and the idea that I will continue to live in Toronto for the next two years, the homebody part of me is somewhat satisfied that there is stability on the horizon.

And the adventurous part of me is PSYCHED to learn some new things, meet some new people, reconnect with old friends, and generally spend some time deviating from the norm some more.

I am an Australian born, Asia Bred girl of 24 who lives in Canada.

Got all that? Good.

A bag and a half of Crazy

Hi. I’m Paris. I’m 5″4, I have skin that breaks out in hives on occasion for no reason, and curled toes that  kind of look like claws. Also, I’m female, and as such I have lady productive parts, fun items like a womb, and these bad ass things called ‘Fallopian tubes.’ Pretty sure there’s other fun stuff down there, but that’s not what I’m really here to talk about today. I’m mostly talking about the goody-bag that turns me into a hormonal rampaging she-mammoth every 28 days or so.

Lots of boy readers (haha oh paris, lots, you flatter yourself…I digress) may be turning away at this point.

EW GROSS is she going to start talking about the P word?!

No. Relax brothers and father (the main component of my male readership) I am not here to recall hilarious anecdotes involving the painters and decorators (have I just turned my two gay brothers gayer?… oh well), instead I want to talk about that exciting game of wearing-no-seat-belt-while-quaffing-hard-liqour-and-oh-shit-the-break-lines-appear-to-be-cut…

PMS

Yup.

I am really lucky to have been born into a body I’m comfortable in, and I’m not whingeing about being of the female variety. There are super awesome advantages, and I have a baby making OVEN on my person, that’s a pretty cool aspect of the human body.

But honestly, hormonal roller coasters of swashbuckling highs and lows… I can do with out.

I try to be a rational person. I do. And 90% of the time, I wander through my brilliant life with very little to worry about, enjoying all the wonderful opportunities around me. I have an amazing family, great friends on all different continents, and a downright hilarious, Canadian-certified nice guy for a boyfriend.

And yet…

There are days where everything seems to go wrong. I’ve suddenly gained 20kilos over night. The re-occurring pimple is back and nastier than ever. My hair looks greasy, even though I washed it yesterday. People on the train were pushy. My friends don’t write back to my text messages. No body loves me. My boyfriend doesn’t love me, and he doesn’t understand me. My parents are being mean. My brothers suck and are ungrateful. And I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. And I hate EVERYTHING. And I need to eat all this chocolate but I’m SUCH a WHALE and I’ll never be happy or have the perfect life or have nice things and my career will be shit andijustwanttobelikecarriebradshawevenifSJPkindoflookslikeahorseandeverythingsucksandAHHHHHHH

This. Is. Hell.

You are a rational prisoner trapped inside your own body. A small voice in your head says:

“Actually, you look fine, you aren’t fat, and if you’re worried about it, just go to the gym and put down the chocolate”
“Your friends are just busy – they aren’t ignoring you.”
“Your boyfriends great – leave him alone and stop causing make-believe drama in your relationship”
“Your parents aren’t mean, they’re honest and open with you – be nice to your brothers, they might have to lend you a kidney or piece of liver one day.”

I like to imagine that the voice of rational me is like a tranquil calm old man sitting at a wooden table trying to hash this out, while the crazy me is like a swarthy, hairy, staggering pirate, sculling ale and slamming his fists down on the table.

“NO! WE SAIL AT DAWN!”

So, I am a crazy, teary, mess of anger and sullen silence for a week. And the people that love me start to think, wtf is wrong with the chick, why can’t she just be cool and the rational old man in me just sits in the corner (maybe he’s like Obe Wan Kanobe?) and he just shakes his head and thinks:
“This one will have to learn the hard way”

But honestly, HONESTLY, I hate being a bag and a half of crazy as much as the people around me hate me transforming into a bag and a half of crazy. It makes me apologize when a wave of ridiculousness has passed, and then spend stupid amounts of time fretting over why I am such a bag and a half of crazy, spending time talking and re-hashing scenarios with girlfriends, going home and thinking about the conversation I had with my girlfriends about being crazy, thinking: shit, maybe they think I’m 2 full bags of crazy and noonewilleverwanttohangoutwithmeandOHMYGODHERECOMESANOTHERWAVE!

To the ladies out there who feel my pain and know what I’m talking about – you are not alone. We all have our moments of crazy and semi-depression, and our self doubts.

To the guys (Hi dad) don’t hate us. I don’t know how you put up with us sometimes, but I’m super glad you do. And hey, at my age, I’ve probably only got twenty or so more years to go until I hit the ultimate jackpot in Hormonal Ecstasy known as Menopause. And from there I think we’re pretty much done… Until I produce a female heir and she turns 13…

xxxx

P

*picture found on Reddit.com
Artist http://www.murraythenut.com